Tales of a Surrogate Father
by Indigo2831
Summary: A series of shorts about Bobby Singer's relationship with Sam and Dean over the years. Inspired by "Death's Door."  Lots of angsty schmoop and young Winchesters. NOW: Sam struggles with grief over Jess; Bobby struggles with his faith. Season 1 spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

Hi! Man, it's been awhile since I started posted an SPN story. I actually write SPN recaps/reviews for StarPulse(dot)com, which is a huge undertaking! But don't worry, I'm sticking with the show til to the end. And I was thoroughly inspired by the winter finale, "Death's Door." These will just be a series of shorts posted out of order about Bobby's connection with Sam and Dean. Please let me know what you think!

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><p><strong>October 3, 1984<strong>

Bobby Singer sat on his porch with a steaming cup of coffee, a weary body and a troubled heart.

The fog slithered along drying fields of his property like some of the nefarious and seductive things he'd hunted. After fifteen years of exorcising real demons, while ignoring his metaphorical ones and skirting the law, Bobby was done. He had a knee that ached from three dislocations and two surgeries, a right lung missing an entire lobe, and one heart attack. But he'd saved more than 400 lives and mentored a half-dozen hunters. He'd probably work in the sidelines, away from the adrenaline and horror. As terrifying as hunting could be, Bobby was more scared of what the unplanned, wife-less years ahead, of fading away from the adrenaline and the danger into a quiet, little life of coffee in the mornings, gin the rest of the day and no one to talk to.

He was afraid of being forgotten and alone.

A flock of birds rose from the field with a startled scream and flew out of sight in a knot of speckled black. Bobby watched as the familiar black car crept up his driveway, and grappled for his trusty revolver that was never out of reach.

John Winchester emerged, stature bowed. He'd run into the novice hunter on several jobs, and decided to show him the ropes before he'd gotten himself killed.

"Hey, Bobby…"

He looked awful, road-weary and battered from the job.

"Just made a fresh pot; you can take whatever room you want."

John offered the barest of smiles. He'd crashed at Bobby's before as he made his way from one hunt to the next, but this time, the kid shook his head, and clutched the door of his prized Impala like some skittish schoolgirl. "I need a huge favor. I hate to ask, but…"

A pained cry from inside the car interrupted him, and he cursed, ducking inside. Bobby stood and squinted against the morning sun to catch a glimpse of two children—a rousing tow-headed child and a small, dark-haired baby strapped in a car seat and swaddled in a blanket.

In the year he'd known him, John had never mentioned having children, but now it made his ever-present grief and hunger for vengeance all the more reckless.

John emerged with his youngest cradled in his arms, the older one climbing out to stand obediently at his side. "If it's not too much trouble, can my boys and I stay with you for a few days. Sammy," he gestured to the baby, "got a nasty ear infection and Dean needs a real bed. I wouldn't ask if…"

Bobby uncocked his pistol and tucked it out of sight. Children, not guns or monsters, made him uneasy. He didn't understand them or even like them that much. But John swayed where he stood, and the youngin's forehead was pressed against his father's leg as he shivered in his too small sweatshirt and jeans. "Just for a few days though," Bobby groused as John ushered them. "I ain't runnin' no daycare."

-SPN-

Bobby eased his old bones into bed, and yawned, scratched his stomach and closed his eyes, drifting to sleep faster than he had in months. A sharp wail destroyed the quiet. Bobby jerked violently out of sleep, groping for a gun before he remembered John and his boys were sleeping down the hall. He flopped on his back, waiting for the father to comfort the child. But ten minutes later, Sam was still shrieking like a harpy in death throes. Cursing John Winchester, Bobby threw the covers back, tossed his trucker cap on and shuffled down the hall. John was passed out on the bed, still in his clothes, the lilt of whisky in the air and a half-charred green scarf clutched in his fist. "You wanna quiet down that kid?"

John snored on.

Judging by the size of the empty bottle on the floor, John wouldn't be hearing anything for quite some time. On the other side of the bed, Dean sat with a red-faced, teary-eyed Sammy on his lap, still screaming. "It's okay, Sammy…you have to be quiet so Mr. Singer doesn't get mad."

"I don't bite, kid. Promise." Bobby said.

Dean, a beautiful kid with piercing green eyes, looked at him warily, clutching Sammy even tighter. Bobby was suddenly struck with how much the kid must have been dealing with and how much he loved his baby brother. "Sammy's ear hurts…'s why he's cryin'. I can't make 'im stop when he's sick."

"It's okay, Dean. I know he's feelin' lousy. You wanna go downstairs, see if we can get the TV to work?"

Dean's entire face lit up like Vegas at night. "Sammy can't walk yet. You have to carry him…and..." Dean scrambled over to the duffle bag that was bigger than him, pulling out John's loaded 9 millimeter, checking the safety and setting it on the bureau. He grabbed the bright blue handmade blanket, "he won't sleep without this."

Bobby took Sammy into his arms, noting how tiny the toddler was, and sure enough, Sammy took the crocheted blanket, hugging it like a dear friend. John had said he was almost eighteen months old, but he looked barely one with a small stature and waves of ribs he could feel through his too-big sleeper. Sammy's lurching cries settled into distraught hiccups as he stared the stranger with big, blue eyes. He poked an index finger into Bobby's beard. "Cut it out," he gruffed.

Strangely, Sammy smiled around the thumb in his mouth and fisted Bobby's nightshirt with his free hand. He was pretty sure his heart, warped from old traumas and a lifetime of violence, glimmered with something soft and good and warm.

Bobby Singer spent his first night of retirement with a feverish toddler tucked in his lap and a five-year-old devouring his favorite snacks and reciting the dialogue to "I Love Lucy" on the staticky television.

And he wouldn't have changed a thing.


	2. Chapter 2

Thanks so much for all of your wonderful feedback and alerts! I'm definitely chomping at the bit to delve into the show's canon, and I will be soon, but I think it was important to explore that early relationship with Bobby and the boys before doing that. I hope you enjoy this next short. Please let me know what you think!**  
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><p><strong>April 26, 1992<strong>

There were certain rankling concessions Bobby made to be friends John Winchester: he had to understand that John's grief was as cold as the fiercest winter and as vast as the Pacific. He had to turn a blind eye to the father who doggedly trained his sons like warriors. Finally, he had to walk through fire to protect his sons.

The last one was the easiest.

Bobby let the curtains drop with a private smile and tried not to run down his porch steps in eagerness. He did have a grumpy old man image to maintain. He opted to lean casually against the railing as the Impala rolled up. Dean Winchester opened his door before the car stopped, gliding out with less grace than Bobby remembered. When the thirteen-year-old stood to his full height, he understood. Puberty had set in, stretching and tugging at the otherwise adorable little boy until he was nothing but long limbs, a gaunt, freckled face and goofy awkwardness. Sammy was more patient, lazily climbing out of the backseat, the ever-present book tucked under his arm. Nature, unfortunately, hadn't kicked in for him yet. The kid was still diminutive for his age with dark features and muddy blue eyes. For a brief moment, Bobby wondered if Sam would ever get be bigger than he was now.

Dean leapt onto the porch, grabbing the cup Bobby held for him and downed the holy water without so much as a twitch. Sammy followed, except he dropped the cup, clutching his throat, and collapsed to the floor with a theatrical thump, writhing and gagging and gurgling.

Bobby lifted his eyebrows and blinked down at him. "Uh, you got ants in your pants?"

Sammy cracked an eye open, panting a little. "Oh, come on! I was givin' you good stuff, Bobby. How didja know I was fakin'?"

"Because a demon would sooner jump a three-legged dog than your midget ass," Bobby joked as he hefted Sammy to his feet.

He waved to John, who peeled out of his yard without a word, off to a hunt in Carson City. Sammy climbed to his feet and didn't pause before wrapping his arms around Bobby's middle in an overzealous hug. "If I got possessed, would ya save me?" He asked, tipping his head back to gaze at him.

Bobby patted Sammy's back as they duck-walked into the house. "Nope." He replied with a wink. He'd set hell on fire if a demon ever looked sideways at the kid.

John's youngest had just discovered what his father really did, and his imagination, a wild, feral thing thanks to all those damned books Sammy devoured, had kicked into overdrive. When he wasn't worrying about his father being ripped apart by monsters, he was giving himself an ulcer over Dean joining the hunt next year. Sammy coped by turning his fears into punchlines, much like his big brother. Bobby humored him because with training, school and with the life of a nomad, the Winchesters needed all the fun and games they could get.

Dean was in the kitchen, drinking a cup of coffee, head in his hands. Bobby stood at the threshold, Sammy chattering at his heels like a yappy dog. Dean looked like he was pushing thirty-five, eyes rimmed with darkness, fingernails chewed down to the quick, anxiety bowing his shoulders. He glanced down at Sam and pulled out a folded page of a magazine from his pocket. "Hey, Sammy, we're having this chicken thing for dinner tonight, round up all the ingredients for me."

The kid, who loved helping, plucked the recipe from his grasp and got to work.

Bobby stood beside Dean. "You didn't make that Irish, did you?"

"Not yet." He answered huskily.

"Got a new GTO in the garage, wanna check it out?"

"Sure." Dean drained the last of his coffee before standing. He checked on his brother, who was standing on a chair and reaching for a can of diced tomatoes in the pantry. The elder Winchester looked at Bobby curiously.

"He's doin' something for me. Let him be."

They stepped out into the frosted spring air and walked across the salvage yard Bobby had built up in the past seven years. It had swelled from a few junkers and shelves of spare parts to a massive collection of cars and customers, including a well-concealed row of muscle cars Bobby restored for suburban dads with more money than time. He let Dean inspect the cars, watching the stress bleed out of him as he ran his hand along the fender of a smashed lime green '65 GTO. There was no denying that Dean was the kid of a mechanic.

Dean slid behind the wheel of the door-less car, gripping it tightly. "Dad taught me how to drive a month ago."

Bobby saw yellowing bruises on Dean's neck, purple ones on his wrist and inwardly cursed John Winchester. "How's she handle?"

His green eyes glittered behind the smile that was too slick for someone so young. "Like a big ass boat. Thought she'd be smoother."

"It's all those horses, that's all. You just gotta get a feel for her," Bobby assured him. "How's Sammy been since the big reveal?"

The excitement slipped from Dean's face like someone flipped a switch, and his eyes grew dark and loaded. He dropped his head back to the seat, shutting down faster than some of those fancy computers. Bobby rounded the car, settling into the passenger seat.

Something flickered in his face, amusement or sorrow, he wasn't sure. But he understood the tears that followed.

"He cries all the time...has nightmares." Dean whispered. "He goes into crazy tantrums when Dad leaves…and Dad just screams at him. I thought it'd be easier once he knew, but now he just asks so many questions about Mom, and I just…talking about that makes my stomach hurt."

The kid scrubbed his face clean with his shirt sleeve. "I'm just tired, Bobby." He said with the bone-deep weariness of a mother of six, not a young kid who should be playing soccer and summoning the courage to ask a girl to the dance.

"You have a right to be." Dean had balked at being treated like a child and he hadn't realized that it was because he probably never was, not with the way his mother had died and the insane, violent turn his life had taken ever since. "You've got far more on your plate than most people your age." Bobby paused, and treaded carefully. "And I'm sure that dad of yours can be as ornery as a bull facing a branding iron."

"He doesn't…ever listen to me about anything. The kids make fun of Sammy because of his grubby hand-me-downs…and he just lets them. I don't know what to do anymore…"

"So you tell me, and I'll make it right."

Dean glanced at him in watery-eyed disbelief.

Bobby gazed straight head, through the cracked windshield of the GTO. "We're in a rare club, you and me. I lost my dad when I was a little older than you…and I had to grow up fast. One day I was fourteen and the next, I was forty. Whatever you need, Dean, you tell me. You're in the driver's seat here."

The kid gripped the steering wheel again and thought carefully, working it out in his head. "…could you…get us some new clothes?"

"We'll go into town tomorrow."

"Can…could you…maybe watch Sammy for tonight?"

Bobby smiled. "I'd planned to take him to the movies after dinner…some animated kids' thing. Figured you wouldn't be interested."

"Okay…I'm just gonna to sit out here."

Bobby took his cue to leave, and to make sure Sammy hadn't actually started cooking the chili. He slid out of the car and headed for the house, ignoring his heart that ached for the kids in his care. Tomorrow he'd go into town and buy him and Sam as many new clothes as he could and he'd give him a small reserve that he could use in case of emergencies. Both knew they'd never tell John.

Two days later, after Dean had spent evenings outside listening to his walkman and just breathing, he came downstairs in his new sweats, well-rested and with a bright smile on his face. He ruffled Sammy's hair as he passed him for the platter of bacon. Bobby smacked his hands away from the coffee, pointing to the glass of milk with a pointed glare. Dean just grinned and hugged him for the briefest of moments before sitting down and dutifully drinking the cup of calcium.

It was damn near impossible being John Winchester's friend, Bobby knew he was mostly because of his children.


	3. Chapter 3

As a gift for the holidays, you get a two-for-one! Merry Christmas. Happy Hanukkah. Happy New Year!

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><p><strong>December 24, 1997<strong>

Bobby literally felt the hot, fetid stink of the swamp wafting off of him as he climbed out of his truck and walked towards the general store.

Mud and gunk lobbed off his boots and he marched in a place a few times to clean off the worst of the slime before entering. The store was unusually crowded with families, screaming babies and a rare bustle for such a small town. It was only when he saw the ransacked Christmas display—one sad strand of white lights, extension cords, and a few bags of holiday-themed candy remained—when he realized that it was Christmas Eve. The weary hunter threaded through the frantic shoppers, snagging two items as he went: a can of corned beef hash and a bottle of their cheapest whiskey.

The cashier was a young girl with a face full of rings and black eyeliner. She scanned his items with an ironic smirk and bagged them with surprising care. "Looks like you're gonna have an _awesome_ Christmas, man."

Bobby flicked his eyes upward, knowing they smoldered a little too much heat. "Bahumbug," he gruffed.

The cashier flashed her teeth, clearly amused.

Bobby drove home, ignoring the trees lining the main square that were beautifully wrapped with white lights and the smell of evergreen wafting in the air.

He sat in the dark at the kitchen table, gulping his whiskey so it would dull the sick knotting of his stomach. Taking his first hunt in the more than six years had only distracted from it for the briefest of moments. If the adrenaline of the hunt, the violent thrill of bagging another monster—a berserker this time—and even the pain that came with the injuries sustained hadn't cured it, it was worth giving whiskey a try.

Some of those highfalutin' headshrinkers would prattle on about how Bobby was punishing himself, burying the absence of the Winchester boys with recklessness and idiocy, but he was really just working with what he had. Pushing forward and saving lives instead of stewing in his own stupidity.

Bobby tiredly panned the shadows and ghosts of his home. With the Sammy there, every light would be on and Bobby would stub his toes on huge books he scattered everywhere. With Dean there, there'd always be pie in the fridge, hot coffee in the carafe, and a skin mags missing from his stash. But he hadn't seen the boys in almost a year, because of John's stubborn blindness and his own foolish heart.

Because he'd asked for Sam.

The soft-hearted kid was breaking under the burden of John's intensive training and the pressure of his first hunts, and their nomadic lifestyle. It had gotten so severe that he made himself sick, riddled with attacks of anxiety and a nervous stomach. After a particularly dark day when even Dean couldn't reign him in, Bobby had stood on his porch and pleaded to keep Sam for the summer. He'd boasted that he'd help train him, but they both knew that Bobby wanted to protect him from the dangers of the supernatural more than prepare him for it. Upon Bobby's request and seeing the hope on Sam's young face, John had exploded like a volcano, all molten rage and destruction, and he'd manhandled a sobbing Sam into the Impala, and severed all contact.

Even remembering it ached, a wound that would never heal.

Bobby drank through Christmas and the New Year.

-SPN-

**February 11, 1998**

He gave the stink-eye to Demon, Rufus' mutt, as he panted impatiently by the door. Thankfully, the dog was as well-trained as it was ugly. Rufus hollered from outside, and Demon nosed open the screen door and trotted outside. The phone rang as Bobby was locking up. He cursed in the frigid morning air, and took tentative steps towards the truck. A niggling feeling tugged at his the base of his spine, and forced him to glance back through the ice-glazed window. The weapons bag hit the porch with a thud and he was inside the house in seconds, snatching the red, for-emergency-only receiver off the hook so hard, the base on the wall shifted. "John?"

The voice that answered was unrecognizable, brittle with panic. "Bobby, it's Dean. I n-need help, man."

He was grateful to speak to Dean, but he knew that everything had gone to Hell for John's dutiful child to disobey him. "That's what I'm here for, kid."

"Dad's missing been missing for two weeks, and they took Sammy yesterday. They won't even let me see him. I don't know what to do who to call."

Bobby's chest clenched with very real pain at the mere concept that Sammy was in danger. "Who…what are you talkin' about, boy? Who took your brother?"

"Children Protective Services. Those sons of bitches came, took one look at the room, and took custody of _my little brother_," Dean spat with venom. "That fuckin' maid ratted us out! Dad's gone…on some lead about the thing that killed Mom, and he hasn't not answering any of my messages..."

"But you're eighteen, go get him!" Bobby nearly yelled.

He could almost hear Dean shaking his head. "I already tried! They turned me down two seconds flat 'cause I don't have a permanent address. I got no credit. I…n-need you to get Sammy out of that prison for junior psychopaths. _Please, Bobby." _Dean's voice broke.

"I'm on my way. Where are you?"

"Delaware…"

Bobby nodded, heart pounding, sweat dripping down his back, but falling into hysterics like some dame wouldn't help anything. He forced his hands still and picked up a pen. "Okay, start from the beginning..."

-SPN-

His mother had always called him conniving and underhanded when Bobby started thinking in moves ahead, planning for any disaster. Someone with secrets always did. But Bobby knew he was preparing because the worst always happened. He'd made the documents years ago, ones that proved he was the Sammy and Dean's legal guardian when the demons John hunted finally bested him. No one could hunt like John Winchester not be killed.

Bobby flew across the country in his best suit, clean-shaven with said documents clutched in his clammy hands. He stomach dropped for the umpteenth time in ten hours when he finally glimpsed Dean at baggage claim. The kid had neglected to mention that his leg was broken and he was on crutches. With the cast, the sunken, bloodshot eyes and a body held gingerly from pain, it was obvious why Sam wasn't left in Dean's care. He hugged him gently at first, not sure what was bruised or broken, and then tighter still when Dean began huffing and sniffling into his coat, gouging deep bruises into his shoulder.

"I didn't protect him, Bobby. He was beggin' me, screaming, and I couldn't do a damn thing."

Bobby patted Dean's cheek, cataloging all of the changes he missed, the growth, the eyes that sparkled a lot less, the fine facial hair on his chin. "Sammy's sparred with you since he was four. Under all that book-learnin' is a fighter, Dean. If we're gonna get him out, we need to do it proper."

It took all of Bobby's tricks to coax Dean into the bathroom to make himself more presentable. It broke his heart to see him shaving with shaky hands and shreds of composure in an airport bathroom. Dean's directions took them to a dodgy, graffittied part of town with more broken street lights than functioning ones. The facility was a dank labyrinth of locked wards and fluorescent lighting and fear. Dean hung back, fighting tears and violence as Bobby poltely presented his papers, stated is case and waited. An hour later, an unnerved but unharmed Sammy appeared from behind the door. His face brightened in relief when he saw Dean leaning against the windowsill. He bolted towards him, launching him back against the wall. Dean sniffled again, embracing Sammy so tightly, it looked painful. "I'm so sorry, Sammy. I tried…I really did."

Sammy's hair was lighter as if he spent a lot of time in the sun. He was only a few inches taller and seemed even skinnier than Bobby remembered. Sammy smiled at him, unfolded a few fingers from Dean's shirt to wave. And then he looked up at Dean, offering him a bright smile. "I'm fine, Dean."

Dean wasn't convinced, fussing over him like a motherhen. "Did those little weirdos touch you?"

"As soon as I got here, I told them I had a migraine. They kept me in the medical ward the whole time."

Bobby chuckled at his ingenuity and drew an arm around Sammy. "Smart kid." The moment overwhelmed him, and he pulled Dean closer too, awkwardly squeezing them both. For just a minute, so the scars of those months without them could heal. "Let's get out of here. Sammy, you ever been on an airplane?"

Sammy's eyes sparkled. Dean swore.

-SPN-

"_John, I really hope you're lyin' in a ditch, beaten to hell, because that's the only good excuse for goin' MIA on those kids. Dean and Sam at are my place, recovering from the God awful nightmare you let them fall into. Call before you darken my doorstep because you won't be able to get within two hundred yards of them unless you want an ass full of buckshot." _

-SPN-

He wasn't sure if he should have been heartened or depressed at the sight of Sam and Dean curled in bed together. Dean's booted leg was evaluated on the pillows from Sam's bed, but the older brother had an arm wrapped possessively around the younger one. Sam's head was pillowed on his brother's chest, hands fisting his shirt. They looked comfortable, relaxed for probably the first time in weeks, but they were also clinging to each other like drowning men to life preservers. It was obvious that they had grown to become each other's sanity and protector. Dean may have raged and fought and hustled to keep them going after John had vanished, but Sam had kept Dean calm on the plane, distracting him with jokes and making sure he took medication for his leg. He set the tray of sandwiches and juice he was carrying on the bedside table, saving Sam and Dean a trip downstairs when they woke up from their comas.

He eased down the hall, stomach aching as it always did with they suffered. They never had a chance at a normal life. Fate and John Winchester seemed to certain on that. First days of school were replaced with weapons training. Mother's Days were just a climax of grief. Bobby clenched his fists, staring down at the doorway, and raging against everything evil and sinister that was intent on punishing those boys. Bobby was taking some of it back, shoving a little good into the bad, a little color into the dark.

He angrily put on his hat and coat, grabbed his axe and got to work. It took the better part of a day with all the wiring, climbing and stringing.

Sammy was curled up on the couch instead of in bed by the time he finished. The kid was down even longer than Dean with a humdinger of a headache. "Feelin' better, Sammy?"

"It's Sam. I like to be called Sam now." He replied from over the top of the book. He marked his page and closed it. "But yeah, headache's gone, mostly."

"So the migraine's excuse wasn't that far-fetched, huh?"

_Sam_ shrugged minutely. "I started getting them in the fall. Dad said Mom got them too after they got married."

"That's too bad, kid."

"You're tellin' me. They suck ass." Sam's eyebrows lifted apologetically. "Sorry."

Bobby waved him off. "With Dean for a brother, I'm surprised you actually know other words. Hey, what'd you do for Christmas?"

Sammy's face darkened and he picked at the cover of his book. "Dad and Dean were on a hunt. They didn't get back until the 27th. But we had dinner at KFC and went to see a movie. We were out really late, it was kinda cool," he reasoned. "What did you do?"

"Well, I missed you and your brother, is what I did."

Sam blushed a little, which added some much-needed color to his cheeks. "I missed you too, Bobby."

"You up for a little walk?"

Immediately, Sam kicked off the covers and stood up… too quickly. Bobby offered him a steady hand as he swayed, dropping his head and sighing out pain.

"You sure you wanna come?" He hedged.

"Sick of the house. Can Dean come too?"

"Of course."

They bundled up and straggled out into the snow like the motley crew they were—one grieving drunk and two orphaned teenagers. Bobby pointed them next to the fallen log, nestled in a blanket of glittering white. "I know it's February, but…" He was at a loss for words of what to say, of how thankful he was that they had been reunited, so he merely headed over to the switch and flicked it.

Christmas lights sparkled on three enormous evergreens in the snow-studded air. Sam gasped in glee. Dean looked at his brother, smiling only when he saw the awe on the younger Winchester's face. Bobby sat down next to Sam, boxing him in with warmth and protection from the cold.

Over Sam's head, Dean caught Bobby's eyes and mouthed, "thanks," before gazing at the trees again.

"Merry Christmas, Bobby," Sam grinned, dimples puckered.

-SPN-

Bobby marched into the thoroughly abandoned general store, Sam beside him, Dean hobbling in on crutches behind him. Delighted by the idea of a real Christmas, Sam had wanted to do it all, so they needed presents and food for dinner. Bobby glanced down at the boy, who was practically vibrating with fourteen years of Christmas spirit. "Whaddya like to eat, Sam?"

"Anything but burgers and fried chicken. Do you know how to make…spaghetti and meatballs?" He wondered cautiously.

"I think we can figure it out." The better brands of food always had recipes on the boxes, Bobby knew.

"Sweet!" Sam darted off to buy his gifts while Bobby plucked ingredients from the shelf.

Bobby glared at them as the boys stood at the checkout, grinning like guilty idjits, bags tucked behind their backs. He had a sneaking suspicion he'd be getting cans of stew and windshield wiper fluid as gifts, but he'd cherish whatever he was given as if he were a Rolex or one of those fancy Italian cars with the wonky doors. He shook his head, fighting the dopey grin that had been tugging at the corner of his mouth for hours. He only regarded the goth cashier when she told him the total and then said, "Wow, vegetables this time. I'm impressed."

"Liver needs a break." He gruffed.

"Those your sons? The tall one's cute," she nudged her head towards Dean.

Bobby's head snapped up sharply as she looked at him with black lips and the gleam of facial piercings. His heart fluttered at the thought, at how right that sounded. Bobby handed over the cash. "Yeah, so don't be gettin' any ideas."


	4. Chapter 4

_Happy New Year! Party hard and safely!_**  
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><p><strong>May 17, 1985<strong>

Bobby cherished his quiet like a woman loved her pearls. The past decades of his life had been nothing but thunder-strikes of violence and explosions of grief. So he'd greeted calming silence like a new friend, relished it, and opted to do his research without the blaring of music or the nattering of the television. When the Winchesters arrived, Bobby's blessedly still house erupted into a noisy chaos of the screen-door clattering, John's gruff parents and Dean's smart-assed chatter.

And then there was Sammy.

The baby had just turned two and still hadn't uttered a word. He'd started walking just a month ago, but existed in playful silence. Bobby had never had kids, but he'd known that wasn't right and wondered if the kid was a bit slow.

Dean, the bright-eyed six-year-old, seemed worried that his little brother wasn't talking either. He read him stories and told him about their mother and babbled on about any and everything, prompting Sammy with questions, urging him to speak. But Sammy would just smile and attentively listen, head tilted.

Dean was asleep now, napping on the couch after a training session. Sammy sat on the floor beneath his brother, playing with the blocks Bobby had made for him in his woodshop.

Bobby arduously climbed down on the floor with him, watching as the sweet child played. Bobby picked him up and sat him on his lap. "Hey, kid," he said and Sammy gazed at him with those twinkling eyes. "What's your name? Can you tell me your name?"

The toddler twisted around, reaching for his blocks.

He gently grabbed his hand and shook his head. Instead he pointed to Dean sleeping on the couch, the big brother that was Sam's sun and moon. "Who's that, Sammy? What's his name?"

Sammy grunted, breath hitching as he prepared to cry. Bobby sighed and relented, hopingthe rugrat didn't feel trapped in a world where he couldn't express himself. "I guess you do things your own way, huh?" he asked as Sam galloped back over to his toys.

Sammy didn't look up. He just kept playing…too quietly and all too seriously. Bobby frowned, though, as he realized, with a gasp of awe, exactly what he was doing. The child, who struggled with his too-long sleeves and fringe of bangs, had sorted all of the blocks by color: red, yellow, blue, green, purple. He lifted his head, flashing teeth and dimples at the older man. Testing him, Bobby moved a large purple block into the green one. Sammy's cute little face bunching in a sour grimace as he put the purple block in the correct pile.

Amused, Bobby did it again, dropping the purple one into the yellow. Sam huffed, exasperated, and snatched the purple block with supreme irritation. He held it up to Bobby with an obstinate anger he'd seen in John. "_Perpa_!" he exclaimed and dropped it in the proper pile with a huff.

Bobby's heart nearly stopped. "Sammy…what did you say?"

"_Perrpa_..." He said distractedly, waving his hands over the purple pile of blocks.

"Well, I'll be damned," Bobby gasped, sweeping his hand over Sam's soft curls.

Bobby handed him a yellow block. "Sammy? What's this? What color is this?"

"_Ye'ow_…" Sammy said with a shrug.

With fascination and patient prompting, Bobby realized that Sam knew all of the colors of the blocks, that Dean was his brother. And the older man guessed that Sammy had waited so long to speak because he was absorbing information like a sponge, soaking it all in and filing it away.

"Who am I?" Bobby asked him, cradling the kid close.

"_Bobba_…" Sam whispered, poking the buttons of Bobby's shirt. "…_ma Bobba_."

The old hunter, who hadn't shed a single tear when he'd buried his father nor when his mother disowned him, felt like sobbing from the sheer joy of having a place in this little person's life. "That's right, Sammy. I'm your Bobby."

And with those first few words, the hushed child vanished. Within days, he was blathering like a gossiping neighbor, asking questions and singing and laughing. Bobby suddenly found his house overtaken with a joyful noise of giggling from tiny, adorable voices that made him smile involuntarily.

When John packed them into the Impala, grinning as Sammy chanted, "daddy, daddy, daddy," as he was buckled into his car seat, the hunter headed back into his house, thoroughly loathing the blanketing quiet.


	5. Chapter 5

Hi, I know I've been away for awhile. This story was very difficult to write for obvious reasons. It's also incredibly long, so it's like three stories in one. I was excited to finally delve into some of the "Supernatural" canon.

Please let me know what you think!

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><p><strong>December 9, 2005<strong>

The air was peaceful, and the snow glittered like sanding sugar, falling with an icy hiss to the frozen ground below. And none of it was a comfort to the old man standing in the graveyard.

Bobby Singer felt every minute of his years, every trauma and triumph, every injury and ache as he knelt beside his wife's headstone. The hunter he'd become in the years since her death told him that her spirit wasn't there. He'd had her salted and burned her once he'd known to do it to make sure she could have the opportunity for the serenity she'd never found in her last month of life. Despite it all, Bobby visited her grave, kept it clean and talked to her sometimes, clinging the tiniest vestiges of faith that maybe she knew he'd never forget her and that he still loved her.

He watched the fluttering snow collect on her stone. He didn't want to talk today, but something compelled him to. "I feel so old comin' to see you now. You never get older."

Bobby knelt, in the snow, ignoring the rusty twinges in his knees. "Arthritis is a bitch though."

"Saw Sam a few months back, had a girl on his arm. He looked as smitten as the day I met you." The memory cut through a decades of surfacing grief.

He'd swung over to Oregon to bail a fellow hunter and friend out of the slammer and stayed to help her wrap up her current case. The nasty poltergeist bound to a home had managed to take out the mom and the family pet before it had been banished, and Bobby had driven down to Northern Cal for a shot of sun and a hit of Sammy. He found him without difficulty, trolling the campus in a tee shirt and jeans, hands clasped tightly with a leggy blonde. The lovesick adoration on his face was clear, and the way he kissed her, cupping her jaw with one large hand and planting one on her in the center of the quad had told Bobby and the world that she was his, and his alone. He'd followed him, deciding not to interrupt the afternoon of coffee, studying and footsie at Starbucks. But as he headed back to his car, the girl tugging him towards the beach, Sam had glanced back over his shoulder and winked at him, knowing he was there the whole time.

"I think the kid's truly out, and if that's not a reason to believe that there's some…higher good out there, and not just blanket evil determined to cut good folks down, then I don't know what is."

His body had stiffened in the cold and he stood gingerly, biting back a groan again. "I'll tell ya, though, Karen, this gettin' old thing sucks balls, but I wish we got to do it together."

Bobby gripped the cold stone and dared something to happen, the sun to flare through the overcast cloud, birds to fly overhead, anything to allow those sparks of faith in Heaven to ignite into something warm and comforting. But the snow continued to fall, the peaceless quiet undisturbed.

-SPN-

The ride home was a long one with the same widowed silence shrouding him. Bobby tried not to think or feel as he crossed into the gates of his property. A smile split his face, however, when he saw the rusted weathervane was pointing towards West. The hunter had never used it meteorologically. It was what Sam and Dean used to signal that they had been there or were there when Bobby was not. His mood lightened a little at the thought of company, even if it was just spending the evening assuring Dean that a missing John would turn up, unharmed as he always did, and distracting him with sports and hunting stories and pie. Sam, he knew, was tucked away at Stanford.

The Impala was parked in its usual parking spot out front, except its fenders uncharacteristically caked with dirty slush, body coated in salt. Bobby entered the house, pulling in the air to call for Dean, but he nearly choked mid-inhale. The television was still tucked in the mudroom, where Bobby kept it when the boys weren't there. The coffee pot was off.

There were two duffel bags, instead of one.

Foreboding chilled him more than the winter air as he heard the footfalls of activity upstairs. Swallowing down ridiculous fear, Bobby ventured up the stairs. He was barely halfway up when he heard it. Sobbing. Mournful, awful, soul-scarring sounds that immediately and reflexively brought tears to his eyes. He knew grief when he'd heard it.

In the room tucked between the bathroom and the master bedroom, the boys' room, Bobby Singer found a gaunt, haggard, bereft Sam Winchester collapsed on the floor, sloppily enfolded in the arms of his brother, crying as if the world had ended. Dean's eyes were closed, his own cheeks painted in tears, as he held him with a bruising intensity. Bobby froze, panicked. Because Dean wasn't assuring his brother that it would be okay. He was a silent, haunted presence, tending to his brother, but barely able to contain his own emotions.

Gasping, Sam pressed his lips together, shoulders jerking. He was all bruised eyes, sharp cheekbones and agonizing pain. Dean passed a hand roughly over his little brother's limp, stringy hair. "I'm right here, Sammy, no one else. You need to rest, okay? Take the pills."

Sam, sputtering, offered the barest of nods. Dean pulled out a real prescription bottle, and got his brother to swallow them and with some coaxing he climbed in bed to fall in a knot of spindly limbs in Dean's lap, and then seemed too exhausted to cry.

When Dean smoothed Sam's hair away from his and used the top sheet to gently wipe his face clean, Bobby left, stomach twisting, heart lurching. He'd been away from base camp and the Roadhouse lately, alternating between helping out on some easy hunts and trying to pick up John's trail, so he had no idea what had happened. Bobby busied himself with brewing coffee and making a list of things to pick up in town since the boys would probably be staying a spell, and tried not to think about what could possibly made Sam leave school or why he was so upset. Tried not to wonder if John had died.

Dean appeared in the threshold of the kitchen an hour later. He locked eyes with Bobby, jaw set in determination to button in the tears he was fighting. The two men didn't speak. Bobby just walked towards him, scruffed the nape of his neck and reeled him in for the hug Dean would never initiate nor fight. "It's okay, Dean." He said even though he knew it definitely wasn't.

"Sam's girlfriend died…_just like mom_." His voice was brittle, breaking.

And those tiny glimmers of belief that Bobby had in the afterlife or heaven were snuffed out with a tearful, five-word confession.

Dean had never spoken said a word to him about the night their mother died, and Bobby never asked. Some traumas should be left undisturbed.

After Bobby poured him a cup of coffee, he sat the table and let it all pour out of him: how Sam had contorted his grief into anger and vengeance and hunted like John used to but he barely ate or slept; how John still wasn't answering their calls; how Sam had literally collapsed under the weight of his anguish, passing out one morning at a gas station; how he hadn't been able to stop crying since.

He swiped a hand over his face, a gesture that reminded him of a much younger Dean Winchester and snifffled. "This wasn't just a college hook-up or a school fling. I…he friggin' lived with her. He really, really loved her, like dad loved Mom. He was…_happy_…and he wanted to go with her. If I hadn't gone in, Bobby, he wouldn't have left that room. Now he's got a death wish the size of Texas…and I can't even protect him from himself right now." Green eyes pinned him again with unveiled desperation. "Can you…maybe talk to him? There's nothing in the big bro handbook about this one. Please?"

"Dean…"

He clenched his fists until they shook. "They were two seconds away from 5150-ing him," he growled, tugging at his hair. "I've spent the past two days basically lying to shrinks, saying that Sam's not a headcase when I fuckin' sat there and watched him not sleep and not eat and until he couldn't collapsed. I wouldn't ask if I hadn't tried everything else. You can punch me later, ban me from the house, whatever, but you know what this feels like and I don't. Bobby, _please_. Talk to him."

Bobby tapped his wedding band against his mug of cooling java, and nodded, feeling like a liar as he did so.

-SPN-

Sam's pain was palpable, tangible and it hurt Bobby just to be near him. The kinship he felt for the boy outweighed it, and he tried so hard to help him. But when he entered the bedroom, whether Sam was asleep, crying or quietly leaking, something locked up inside of him, self-protecting by caging the monstrous grief where he'd closed it off to be forgotten. Because he'd lost his wife almost three decades ago and the ensuing torment nearly killed him. It was why Bobby didn't attend funerals or wakes, and why he'd arranged to be cremated with a healthy sprinkling of rock salt and his friends to be informed via registered letters a month later.

The tall, hollow-eyed, mournful stranger that looked somewhat like Sam was in the kitchen, draped in a blanket, starring at the bottle of sedatives with an intensity that made Bobby's mouth go dry.

"I hope you at least wrote a note first, boy," he said evenly.

The younger man startled, nearly falling out of his chair. "Don't really like being drugged, ya know? I'm just…so tired…"

"I know, kid."

When Sam stood up to make Bobby a cup of tea, he moved with a woodenness that soul-deep. Gone was the smiling man who glided through the Stanford quad, the lithe blonde love of his life on his arm, and the entire world at his feet. This kid had dirt under his nails, healing scabs on his knuckles, a jawline darkened with two days of whiskers, and a shaggy head of uncut hair.

This was a hunter, mired in the life. It broke Bobby's heart to see it.

"Do you want to…maybe talk about her?"

"No."

It didn't surprise him. He waited as Sam poured hot water into the mugs and shuffled them back to the table. Sam's hands were shaking as he dropped the tea bags into the steaming water. And it was that sense memory that gave him a visceral flashback to those first week's after Karen's death when he could do little more than tremble in the corner, clutching one of her dresses.

"Dean wanted me to talk to you. Thought I had some widower's wisdom to pass down." He heard himself saying.

Sam's lips twitched. "Sounds like 'im. I tried, Bobby, I did. I just can't do this anymore."

"I wish I could string together some highfalutin' haikus that would make this all better, but I can't. You're hurting because you loved the hell out of her. Because you wanted…to die for her and you couldn't. Because women—the special ones—worm their way into your hearts and cling to it like a barnacle…and we're better for it."

Sam didn't look at him, kept his head shrouded in shadows. Bobby knew he was listening just the same.

"She didn't know me…not the real me. I was going to tell her but I kept procrastinating. I kept putting it off. Because I knew the second I did, she'd leave. And…and I couldn't bear it. But that got her killed. I got her killed." Sam confessed in the darkness. "She was hacked open and calling for me before she started burning. I did that to her."

Bobby gave himself a minute to digest such ugliness. And Sam got up and pacing in the cramped kitchen. "You know that's not true, Sam. The demon did that to her."

"Do you feel guilty for killing your wife?" He shot back, no pretense or cushioning.

It was meant to hurt.

"No," he said honestly. "And it took me an addiction and seven years of recovery to get there, but no I don't. She was possessed and in pain and I ended it."

Sam hurled his mug of coffee across the kitchen, where it shattered against the fridge, painting it in caffeinated black. "Well I _started_ it. That demon came into my nursery when I was a baby and then came into my apartment 22 years later on the same fucking day. It wants me, Bobby. You're not saying it; Dad never said it. But it's obvious."

"The only thing that's obvious is that evil is a determined sonuvabitch and you know how to fight it, so of course that makes you a threat."

Sam was crazed, pumped up with rage and the horror of memories he couldn't process. Bobby turned to face him, trying to watch for any purpose in his movements, trying to diffuse the emotional nuclear bomb he'd become.

"If I wasn't here, it'd be over, maybe…"

Bobby saw it, the split-second before he reacted. He saw Sam's eyes flicked to the block of razor-sharp knives or maybe the row of glasses. For someone who'd been trained in combat, anything could be a weapon. Bobby was moving out of his chair before the urge to move even registered. He back-handed Sam to thwart his frantic lunge for the counter and bear-hugged him from behind. It took all of his strength and maybe a little love to neutralize the grieving man. He'd grown since the summer he stayed at Bobby's two years ago and even though he was too-thin, he was far from weak.

"It's okay, Sam. It's okay."

"Bobby, please just let me…please let me go. You know I'm right," Sam wept.

"I know you're hurtin' and not thinkin' straight. And I know she wouldn't want you to do it. I saw you two at Stanford. I saw how she looked at you and how much she loved you. She wouldn't want this, Sam. I'll bet my eye-teeth she wasn't calling out to you. I bet she was _warning you_, trying to get you to leave. It's what I would do. It's what Dean would do."

Sam's fight whooshed out of him like the turning of a lock and he deflated, sending them both tumbling down to the coffee-slicked linoleum. Bobby held on, hugging more than restraining. "I love you, Sammy and I'd follow you wherever you went. Dean would in a heartbeat. So if you wanna go, you're going to take us both with you."

Sam was crying again, those same mournful sobs that kept him up at night when Bobby was cowardly locked in his bedroom. Bobby waited until Sam had calmed a bit and cradled both cheeks in his hands, forcing his eyes on him. "This pain you feel like now…you can keep other people from feeling it. You can save lives and stick it to those evil bastards intent on sowin' heartache. That's what I did, Sam. I did it until I knew I was done. And I figured out how to keep going in the mean time." Bobby explained.

Sam seemed to hear him and Bobby leaned back against the counter, not ready to let Sam go.

His backside had gone numb when Sam spoke again. "Do you think…that maybe there's a Heaven?"

Bobby had never lied to Sam before, not when it really mattered, but at that moment Sam's survival was more important that Bobby's shoddy morality. He drew in a deep breath. "Karen liked squash blossoms. She thought they were prettier than...pretty much anything. So on Valentine's Day when all the husbands are fightin' over roses; I'm callin' a farm in California and ordering a box of squash blossoms. I never noticed them before Karen, but I sawa them everywhere afterwards. Now it makes me think of her. She's everywhere, Sam, and once it's not so fresh, you'll see that and it'll feel good. She's still there…in spirit."

"Have you ever…thought maybe, have you felt her? 'Cause I feel her sometimes…"

Bobby thought of the day in the cemetery, the stillness and the utter lack of wind. "Yes," he lied. "I feel her all the time. She's not triggerin' the EMF, but I think she's tryin' to tell me she's okay."

Sam sighed, long and deep, and brought a hand up to wipe his face. Bobby squeezed him even tighter, ignoring the sharp angles of protruding shoulder blades and the waves of ribs. "You feel whatever you need to feel, but your dying would not make Jessica happy. And it would wreck a lot of people who are still here who love you, including your brother who thinks he failed you. So you have to try, Sam. Grit your teeth and just try to get through one day, one hour. And then the next…and when you think you can't, you call me and I'll fuckin' carry you through it."

The youngest Winchester had stayed in bed for another two days and Bobby figured his touchy-feeling bullshit hadn't accomplished a single thing.

Until he came back from town and saw Sam choking down lunch, trying to make conversation with Dean.

-SPN-

They left a week later, with Sam a bit stronger, but itching for the hunt in the pathological way John had when Sam was a baby. Bobby would worry about him, he knew, but not as much as he had in the bleak days when he arrived. Once again, Bobby had to adjust to an empty house and the usual palpable loneliness that blanketed it after the boys left. He put away the television. He ate breakfast over the sink. He busied himself with work.

One blastedly cold morning, Bobby stepped onto the snow-covered porch, groaning about all the shoveling he'd have to do after the night's snowfall. As he locked the door, a flash of bright yellow and green caught his eye among the sparkling white.

There, ontop of the untouched snow, was a single, pristine yellow squash blossom.

He started at it, tears burning warming paths down his cheeks and looked around, at the untouched snow. He picked it up, smelling his wife's perfume, instead of the usual earthy scent, and those extinguished sparks of faith blazed into a full-fledged fire.


End file.
